I catch up with them at the moving walkway. Dylan flashes me a big grin and beside him, Scarlet is beaming with happiness.
‘There’s so much to get,’ he tells me. ‘My room’s going to look dope.’
‘Totally,’ agrees Scarlet. ‘Plus, I’ve seen one or two things that I really need too.’
So that’s why she’s here. I must really be losing my game for not seeing that coming.
‘We’re here to kit Dylan out for uni,’ I remind her.
‘Oh yeah, of course.’ She nods earnestly and then puts her hand on my arm. ‘They’re only tiny things and I can always pay for them myself. Or just wait until it’s my turn to leave home.’
I know what she’s doing. Of course I do, I’m not a compete imbecile. It still doesn’t stop my heart from crumpling in my chest at the thought of her being gone, along with Dylan.
‘Well, perhaps I can get you something,’ I tell her. ‘As long as it’s cheap.’
We step off the walkway and Dylan rushes across to where the trollies are parked.
‘We’re going to do this sensibly and logically,’ I tell them both as we move towards the first set of shelves. ‘My list is organised into sections and there will be no deviating from the list, understood?’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ Dylan whips his hand up to his head and clicks his heels together in the same way that’s he’s been responding to my commands since he was fourteen and that has consistently driven me crazy for the past four years. Nobody is going to salute me once he’s gone and the knowledge of this makes me suddenly want to cry.
But there’s no time scheduled for tears today. He’s going to be off before we know it and this is our chance to make sure that he has everything that he could possibly need. We’ve spent eighteen years equipping him with life skills – and now the time has come to provide him with the appropriate tools necessary for his survival.
It turns out that we have ever so slightly differing opinions on the definition of survival tools. We haven’t even made it past the first set of kitchen implements before the conflict begins.
‘You need some basic crockery,’ I say, picking up a cheap but perfectly functional set of two white dinner plates with matching side plates and bowls.
‘Basic is right,’ sniffs Scarlet. ‘They look like they’re made out of paper.’
‘I like these,’ says Dylan, gesturing to a dramatic (and tacky) dinner set. ‘The purple splatter effect really stands out against the black background.’
‘You’re going to be eating beans on toast,’ I point out. ‘I hardly think that the décor of the plate is going to enhance the culinary experience.’
He huffs a bit but I stand my ground and the basic plate set is placed into the trolley.
Round One to me.
‘Okay, now we need to find you a mug.’ I consult my list. ‘Actually, we’ll get you two mugs just in case you have a friend over and want to make them a cup of tea.’
I ignore Scarlet’s snort of derision and march across to the mug aisle.
‘How about this one?’ I ask, reaching up. ‘I think the dark blue will work well with the white plates.’
But when I turn around, Dylan and Scarlet have disappeared. Sighing, I replace the mug and then push the trolley towards the sound of my children who, for some reason, appear to be howling with laughter.
I find them in the next aisle. ‘Hey! I’m not doing this if you’re not going to take it seriously. You can’t just bugger off and leave me to do all the work. I wanted to know what mug you’d like to get but it would appear that I’m the mug for doing everything while you two just mess about.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ Dylan looks contrite. ‘I saw this display stand and it reminded me that there’s some other stuff on the list that I need.’
I gaze at the contents in his hand and then glance back down at my list.
‘Nope. I told you before, there will be no deviating from the list and I can assure you that those items are absolutely not written down here.’
Dylan grins at me. ‘They might not be on your list but they are on my list. Look!’
He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and brandishes it in front of me.
He’s made a list.
His very own list.
My heart swells with so much pride that for a second I think it might actually burst, right here in the kitchen department. Finally, after all those years of hard work and effort, he is starting to take responsibility for himself.
My son, the list-maker.
He’s actually going to be okay.
My parenting work here is done and I can’t lie, it’s a bittersweet success.
‘Have you read his list, Mum?’ asks Scarlet, ruining the moment and yanking me back to reality. ‘It’s really sensible.’
I pull the piece of paper out of Dylan’s hands and scan my moist eyes across the scrawled handwriting.
It is not sensible. It would only be sensible if it were, in fact, the list of a stressed-out parent planning a particularly boisterous child’s birthday party.
‘I don’t see why you could possibly need jelly moulds,’ I tell him, a small frown furrowing onto my forehead. ‘Or fairy lights. Or inflatable toys. Or ping pong balls. Or a fancy-dress outfit.’
Dylan throws an arm around my shoulder and ushers me back towards the mug section, but not before I see him pass the jelly moulds to Scarlet who places them into the trolley.
Round Two to Dylan.
‘You want me to make friends, don’t you?’ he asks. ‘And nothing says friendship like a vodka jelly on our first night in the flat.’
‘But you don’t drink alcohol,’ I say, pulling away and staring up at him. ‘Why can’t you just make a regular jelly, if the aim is to get to know your flatmates? Or I could ask Granny to make you some of her yummy brownies.’
‘I don’t drink now,’ Dylan agrees. ‘But I’m going to uni, Mum. You’re the one who told me that it was all about starting a new adventure and that I should embrace every opportunity that comes my way.’
‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that,’ I mutter. I’m lying. I did say that, one warm evening in France when I’d had some wine to drink and the kids were lying on the grass pointing out shooting stars and the world seemed wonderful and filled with potential. I felt brave that night, as if everything was happening exactly the way that it should.
But right now, in this harshly lit shop with hundreds of people pushing past me, I feel less brave and definitely less filled with awe and wonder.
‘Well, what about the other stuff?’ I say, moving on. The moulds are already in the trolley and in all honesty, I can’t see Dylan having the patience to faff around with vodka jelly. I speak from experience when I say that the concept is a whole lot more fun than the reality. Getting the vodka to set in the first place is challenging enough – and then cleaning jelly-coloured vomit out of carpets in rented student accommodation is the cherry on the cake. I’m tempted to tell him to just eat a packet of raw jelly and then drink a few vodka shots to save himself the hassle – but I won’t because a) that would be irresponsible parenting and b) some life lessons have to be experienced first-hand to really make an impact.
‘I need a fancy-dress costume for Fresher’s Week,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. ‘And the toy is for one of the nightclubs – apparently you get in for free if you bring an inflatable with you.’
I stand still and try to process this ridiculous information.
‘You should try and buy yourself an inflatable woman,’ Scarlet informs him. ‘That’s the best chance you’ve got of getting a girlfriend when you’re at uni.’
‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ I say, leaping to his defence. ‘And that’s not a very nice thing to say to your brother. Apologise.’
I turn, just in time to see Dylan flicking Scarlet the finger.
‘Dylan!’ I hiss. ‘That’s not an appropriate gesture to make in public. Or anywhere else, come to that. Say sorry.’
&nb
sp; They both roll their eyes and turn back to the shelves of crockery.
‘I need the fairy lights to make my room look appealing and cosy and to create a chilled ambience,’ he continues, picking up the exact same mug that I had selected, scowling at it and then putting it back on the shelf. ‘The ping pong balls are for impromptu games of beer pong.’
‘Not very impromptu if you’re planning for it now,’ I quip, ignoring the second reference to alcohol in the last twenty seconds. ‘And I suppose fairy lights could be quite nice. I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in interior decorating and ambience before.’
‘But I’ve never had my own room before,’ he says. ‘Can I get these mugs with the chunky handles?’
I nod, distracted by what he’s just said. He’s always had his own room but I know what he means, even though it pains me to admit it. Going away to uni is purely his and nothing to do with Nick or me. And I know that’s part of the reason for going – he’ll get a whole load of life experiences and skills alongside his degree and I’m beyond happy that he’s feeling confident and ready.
I am so very freaking happy. These are definitely happy tears that are threatening to leak from my eyes. The breaking of my heart is a happy breaking, it really is.
‘So can I get the lights?’ he asks. ‘You know, for the ambience?’
I am a lost cause.
Eventually, after what feels like many, many hours, we make our way to the checkout. Scarlet is now the proud owner of a number of photo frames, a new bedspread and several thousand cushions and will apparently love me forever. I have never been the kind of woman who feels as if she needs to buy her children’s affection but right now, I’ll take whatever I can get.
It’s possible that I am a teeny bit needy at the moment.
The trolley is laden with pots and pans and other student paraphernalia. We have had a prolonged discussion about the merits of two different potato mashers, with me insisting that the cheap, plastic one will do just as adequate a job as the Gucci version in stainless steel that he had his eye on and I have enjoyed eavesdropping on another family who were engaged in a lively and fun debate about the necessity of owning not one, but two pizza cutters ‘in case of emergencies’.
‘I don’t think that went too badly,’ I say, putting the plastic potato masher on the conveyor belt. ‘We’ve got everything on my list and none of it was too expensive.’
Then the cashier quotes me a price that makes my eyes well up yet again, only this time I am not having a nostalgic Mummy-moment.
‘How much?’ I screech. Scarlet whips her head round, her cheeks flushing with humiliation as she checks to see if anyone has witnessed my outburst. She needn’t worry – every checkout is filled with parents and their lanky, teenage offspring and my words are lost in the cacophony of disbelief and horror as credit cards are fumbled and faces pale as they acknowledge that their child may well be off to university with everything they could possibly require, but their own food and drink budget is about to be wildly slashed to compensate for the massive bill that they have just been presented with.
‘At least you won’t have to feed me when I’m away,’ Dylan says, once I’ve paid.
I release the breath that I’ve been holding and uncross my fingers and toes. The credit card went through and for that I am truly thankful, seeing as my side-hustle isn’t exactly proving to be especially lucrative yet.
‘That’s true,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, at this rate you’re going to be the one sending food parcels home to us. We’re going to be living on baked potatoes for months.’
‘Oh god,’ huffs Scarlet, her shoulders drooping. ‘I hate bloody baked potatoes. In fact, I hate potatoes full stop. I mean, what’s the point of them? They’re ridiculous – if you want to grow a potato then you have to plant a potato. It’s like, how is that even a thing?’
‘What came first, the potato or the potato?’ adds Dylan. ‘It’s worse than the whole chicken and egg conundrum.’
‘Well, you’re going to have plenty of time to contemplate it,’ I say, attempting to get the trolley towards the lift. ‘While you’re eating all those lovely potatoes for every meal.’
‘But I hate potatoes,’ Scarlet repeats, with a whine in her voice.
I am absolutely not in the mood for this.
‘But you love your gorgeous new bedspread and photo frames and cushions, don’t you?’ I snap. ‘Or shall we go back and ask for a refund?’
Scarlet leaps next to me and puts her hand on the trolley.
‘I’ll help you with this,’ she says, smiling enthusiastically. ‘And I’ve just remembered that I love potatoes and I’m very grateful for anything you feed us.’
Then she turns her head so that she’s looking at her brother.
‘As long as they’re in chip form,’ she murmurs and I decide to go along with the pretence that if she can’t see me, then I obviously can’t hear her. Sometimes Scarlet behaves more like a seven-year-old than a seventeen-year-old.
Dylan moves up on my other side and helps wrangle the trolley inside the opening lift doors.
‘Thanks Mum,’ he says quietly. ‘I know it’s a lot but having you help me kit out my room is going to really help when I’m there on my own. It’s going to make it feel like I’ve got a bit of home with me.’
And I am slayed for the third time today.
But in a good way, I think.
Chapter Nine
There are two things waiting for me when I get home from work on Monday. The first assaults my senses when I step out of the car and I shudder. I love living in this house very, very much, but the fact remains that it is needier than all of our children put together and something is always breaking or going wrong or demanding attention. And right now, a person does not need superhero senses to identify that the septic tank is due its regular emptying. It is at times like this that I entertain the idea of moving somewhere with new and swanky commodities such as mains drainage.
‘Urgh – that’s disgusting!’ mumbles Scarlet, slamming the passenger door and clamping her hand against her face. ‘I can’t believe I have to live like this. I hope the rest of the street are all out. It’s mortifying.’
‘It’s your poo too,’ Benji helpfully points out. ‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed about something that comes from your own body.’
She growls something unintelligible and makes a dash for the front door. I glance around, keeping my fingers crossed that our closest neighbours aren’t home. Benji can make as many self-affirming, body-empowering statements as he likes. The stench really is foul and it really is humiliating.
‘Afternoon, Mrs Thompson.’ Rob, our friendly septic tank engineer/emptier, walks across the front lawn with Dylan at his side. Rob informed me the first time we met that he has no sense of smell. Never has a person been so well suited for a job. Sadly for Dylan, he would appear to possess a fully working nasal system and his face has gone a bit pale. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a problem.’
I press my lips together and give Rob a tight smile, steeling my inner resolve. Whatever it is, we can handle it. And it’s probably not even that big a deal. This is poo we’re talking about. How much of a problem can poo possibly be?
‘Hit me with it,’ I say, trying to sound chirpy while not inhaling too deeply. It might be my imagination but the stink seems to be getting worse.
‘Your tank has imploded,’ he says, his voice monotone. ‘The lads emptied it out as usual and the whole thing just collapsed. The contents were the only thing keeping it together.’
‘Oh shit,’ says Dylan.
Somebody had to.
‘What does that actually mean?’ I enquire, trying to stay calm. ‘Is it something that can be easily fixed?’
Rob laughs, the same way he laughed when I asked him if it was true that throwing a dead badger into the septic tank would mean that it didn’t need emptying, as the previous house owner had assured us.
�
�It means that you’ve got two choices. The first is that you can spend an extortionate amount of money on replacing the tank.’
I shake my head. That doesn’t sound good.
‘The second is that you can spend an extortionate amount of money and finally get connected to a mains drainage.’
‘Is there a third option?’ I ask weakly. ‘One that doesn’t involve extortion?’
He grins at me. ‘You could do what my old mum used to do and use a bucket.’
‘She’ll pay,’ Dylan tells him and I nod.
He’s right. One way or another, I’ll definitely end up paying.
I always do.
Once Rob has explained that we can continue to use the bathroom and the kitchen but that we should expect some degree of aroma and seepage until he can return in two weeks to sort out the mains connection, I stumble inside the house and head straight to the shower where I spend at least fifteen minutes scrubbing the smell from my hair.
Then I head downstairs to the kitchen where I find the second surprise of the day waiting for me in my inbox.
I read it once and then I sit down and read it again. And then I stand and make my way to the fridge, pulling out a full bottle of very cold and very alcoholic white wine, which I pour into a glass and take outside into the garden after giving Dylan strict instructions to cook some pasta for everyone. The front garden still has essence of shite in the air so I make my way to the very end of the back garden, as far away as possible from both the house and the smell.
I’m still out there when Nick gets home sometime later, his face lined with exhaustion after another long day. He sits down next to me and raises his eyebrows when he sees the almost empty wine bottle next to my open laptop.
Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year! Page 8